


Camera Obscura

by LaDolceMia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: - what a fathomless depth of care just three syllables can reveal, 22 one be, And the destination of love's journey is always permanent no matter how long or short, But remember that love is outside time's laws, Did you ever make a flipbook as a child?, Falling in love's just like flying, It's just a trick John, It's quietly beautiful isn't it - how compulsively John says "You Okay?" to him in canon, Johnlock – Freeform, L'ecriture de la ribcage, Love and Neurology, M/M, One more miracle Sherlock for me, Or perhaps as an adult, Polyptychery, Romance, The measure of a moment, The seductive nature of narrative qua narrative, The term phenakistoscope comes from the Greek word phenakizein meaning to deceive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:55:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sight, as we experience it, is an illusion:  In humans, the visual cortex retains any given image for approximately 1/22nd of a second after it disappears from physical view.  This is why, for example, we do not notice that an analog film screen is actually completely dark between fast-moving still frames. Likewise, this “persistence of vision” is the operative principle behind kineographs. Our minds hold on to an image, one after another, and create wholeness out of what is actually fragmentation. Our hearts assemble narrative out of what are actually disparate pieces. We live our lives at 22 frames per second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With woefully inadequate thanks to lovely and generous beta readers [Sarah Glover](http://www.sarahmglover.com/), Natalie Featherston, Dr. Sharon Giles, thigmotaxis, and aderyn.
> 
> This piece has been formatted as a series of discrete sequential vignettes – I recommend not opting for the entire work button, as that will result in buggy html issues. Click away at the next chapter button instead; it will be good to you.
> 
> For those wary of my choice to not use archive warnings, please know that there’s no great departure from my usual authorial ethos here; no non-con, underage, etc. If you are concerned, inquire before embarking.
> 
> Feedback is, as always, welcome. I'm genuinely interested in, and appreciate hearing about, your experience as a reader. 
> 
> This is a love story. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> ~
> 
>   
> 

 

  


Knocks: One, two, rapid, casual – not an asking for entrance, merely the superfluous announcing of  
imminent entry. Tedious.

Pastrami, mustard, Boots' generic aftershave: Stamford. And- _Oh_.

Something _new_. 

Hmm. Terribly ordinary, but he might do. Bit of diversion, and– audience. Yes.  
Just the thing.

And look how easy it is to impress this one. Pliant too, no doubt. Dreadfully bland though, and he'll  
get boring quickly, but for now– 

 

 

“The address is 221B Baker Street.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh god John- yes!– ”

“You have to stop squirming if you want me to– ”

“There, right there, ah- AH!”

“Sherlock, if you move your hands anywhere towards your body, I _will_ tie them to the headboard, yeah?”

It's not an idle threat, he knows. Swallows hard at the hammering urge tingling through his fingers, musters what he hopes is a reasonably convincing impression of a contrite nod.

Satisfied, John resumes his stroking, cool wet smear under his fingertips warming against the hot skin.

Sherlock doesn't mean to gasp quite so loudly, but the low moan that follows is even more embarrassing.

John hmms in a satisfied tone, and chuckles softly as he dabs cream on the last itchy red circle.

“And I mean it, about the scratching. _Don't_.”

He attempts an indignant huff in reply, but manages mostly just a slightly loud exhalation. Damn. The cursed little viral cells have rendered him very nearly _docile_.

John clips the tube closed, pats his patient's leg amiably. “Honestly Sherlock. Who manages to get all the way to the age of 30 before contracting the chicken pox?”

“Not much ...interaction... with other children.” And if they both pretend not to hear the faint note of something that isn't arrogance tweak the edge of his voice, what's the harm? 

“And I've managed to avoid most adults-” he continues more robustly, pausing to level an accusing eye before adding pointedly “- _until now_.”

“Ah. So this is my fault, then?,” John returns, half laughing the words good-naturedly. “How _awful_ of me, exposing you to human relationships.” His efficient hands gather up cotton buds, tidy the nightstand; nudge the glass of orange juice to within easy reach.

“Well. I'll be right next door if you need me.”

 

Why on earth would he need John?


	3. Chapter 3

_That, ah— thing that you did–_

 

 

John probably thinks you'd try to have the last word with God. (You could. _Obviously_.) Whipcrack tongue, clever clever. So what happened back there? Misplaced les mots justes, did you? Fell out of your pocket and rolled away, did they? Well, the adrenaline, you know. Still the scent of it even now in your shirt, lingering alongside that of chlorine.

 

_That you, um, you offered to do–_

 

John. Sleeping up there, on the other side of the ceiling you're staring at. The sudden yielding of wired to exhausted making him sag for a moment as he'd climbed out of the cab. It certainly didn't cause a curious stab under your breastbone, didn't remind you of him crumpling down to the tile minutes after offering to– 

 

_That was, uh... good._

 

Oh, John. That he would _kill_ for you, yes, sure. But that he's also willing to– 

 

Say it, just say it. Words can't hurt you, for Christ's sake! Just think it if you can't say it aloud, just– 

 

 

John Watson is willing to _die_ for you. 

 

 

 

 

 

“No such thing as heroes, and if there were, you wouldn't be one”? We know you don't like to be in error, but take heart, darling – perhaps it's only that first half you got wrong. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The lounge is quiet and drowsy, slow swim of Sunday sunlight drifting in flecking John's hair with sharp little bursts of dazzle and warming Sherlock's bare toes where they dangle from the sofa.

The lounge is quiet and drowsy until it isn't.

“I hate your face!”

“Sorry, _what_?” Said face rises up over the top of the _Times_ like the sun or the moon or whatever damn planetary body, the point is, it's got Sherlock caught in its gravity- he revolves around it, he's bloody _trapped_.

That stupid face, that horribly kind, appallingly gentle, annoyingly _accepting_ face peers at him quizzically. Waits so patiently Sherlock can veritably feel the fondness ( _disgusting!_ ) emanating from it. There is no shield for this Medusa; all he can do is turn away, quickly as he can.

Kicking out at the sunbeam also vexing him, he stares resolvedly at the ceiling, refuses to meet John's inquiring gaze. In fact, he's never going to look at John’s face again, _never_. Ne.Ver.

Which is apparently three seconds. 

His eyes ( _traitorous!_ ) slide sideways and there it is, same as always: Wrinkled and cosy as a soft blanket, the crumpled-paper creases around the lateral canthus drawing attention to the warm eyes. Thin little scraps of lip turned up at the edges just precisely the right amount to make his stomach feel quivery. 

It's intolerable! How is a person supposed to see that face and not– feel things. 

“Bah!”

A voluminous huff of frustration follows this interjection, and he leaps up from the sofa, flails from the room in a swirl of dressing gown, failing to slam his bedroom door as loudly as he'd wanted.

He paces like Rilke's panther, sinuous coil of caged frustration, murmuring to himself and gesticulating vigorously for an audience comprised chiefly of the periodic table and a pile of shirts packed for the dry cleaner's. They watch silently as he simmers until he boils. It's simply outrageous- how _dare_ he have a face like that and- and _use it against people_. It can't go on! It can't! 

He bursts out of the door prepared for war, strides toward his target, intent on its obliteration. He looms as menacingly as he can- which is rather a lot, thank you. 

John glances up from his armchair. Smiles. Has the temerity to _beam_ at him, all Shar Pei crinkles and marshmallowy eye bag kindness. 

“Feeling better?” 

His sharp and beautiful fury melts into a sloppy pile of goo with an almost audible _pleh_. 

  


Oh bloody Christ. He's _doomed_.

  


 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  


He's gathered the data. The evidence is incontrovertible. 

Hypothesis tested; results repeatable. Galvanic skin response, pupil dilation, respiration, it's all there, it more than passes the minimum threshold of scientific quantifiability. John'd even helpfully blushed – a startling wash of pink that included his ears and what Sherlock could see of his neck – when they'd been pressed together in that warehouse ventilation shaft last week.

Still... not his area. How to go about it?

He stares broodingly through the cab window as if the solution might be out there somewhere, amongst the shop stalls and parade of bobbing umbrellas. The glossy pebbles of rain on the glass obscure his view, and Lambeth goes by in a colorful 32 kph smear.

It's warm in the taxi, and John is close – _so_ close, so temptingly close – where they're sitting side by side on the snug bench seat. Tired, and therefore careless, apparently: When his thigh shifts, putting his knee firmly in contact ( _contact!_ ) with Sherlock's leg, he doesn't bother to straighten back up, pull away, as social convention surely dictates.

A few quick peripheral darts assure him that John's gaze is fully off to the side, so. Safe to look.

He stares down at the place where he can feel the heat of John's leg traveling through denim, through wool, then into his own skin.

He doesn't understand why it makes his breath trip over itself.

The slightly strangled sound shakes John from his own window-gazing reverie: “Y'kay?”

Covering it with a cough – convincing, he's sure – he nods, turning casually away to pick idly at non-existent lint on his coat.

John is so close, and the evidence is so compelling, and-

God, he wants this. 

More than he's ever wanted anything. But. _But_. He has precisely zero buggering idea how to get it. If only he could be _sure_. Perhaps one more experiment, just one, just to be quite certain...

Plausible deniability's the key. _Oh, sorry John, my lips accidentally bumped into yours, HAHAHA_. 

Right. Well. His hand, though – that'd work.

It's got to seem an accident, and it's not easy to pull off a casual drop when your arm's trembling like a sick animal and you feel as though you're standing on the precipice of a vast fall, but- there!

His hand lands – convincingly accidentally, he's sure – over John's.

Startled. John looks startled- his eyebrows, his eyes- he has no idea how to read this expression and _Ohshitdamn_ is just about to nonchalantly withdraw his hand when John- _smiles_.

John's smiles always make him feel right; chuffed, warm– what he supposes ordinary people experience as “happiness,” but this one– _Oh_.

It fills his stomach with an oozing warmth, and his skin is prickly all over. The sudden flood of dopamine's made him daring, apparently: He leans just a tiny bit closer. Curls his fingers just a tiny bit more deliberately around John's.

Too nervous to bear the intensity of the gaze the small movement earns him, he turns away, stares straight ahead at the partition. He's just about successfully swallowed back the horrible giddy and bright swell welling up in his torso when a stray starburst of streetlight hits the plexi at just the right angle. It's a mirror, for a moment. And John is looking into his eyes in their shared reflection.

 

His heart leaps off the ledge.

 

  



	6. Chapter 6

  


So this is _sentiment_ then. Grotesque. Intolerable. Waiting in the darkness feeling as though his skin's been turned inside out. 

The glow of the clock next to the bed tells him midnight, tells him 12:16, tells him 12:41, tells him to stop checking, it's not going to make him come home any faster.

John. Gone. Stormed out. Overreaction. He's called John stupid before. More than once, even. He hadn't really meant to this time, it was only that John's "Brilliant!" didn't seem _quite_ as enthusiastic as usual. So what if he was a little late getting to the damn solution on the Pellington case ( _sod all, it was so obvious!_ )? If he's not brilliant every time, all the time, what of it? What, John's going to leave if he's not?

Oh.

Why else would John stay with you? No. There must be- other reasons. He isn't afraid; he doesn't feel fear. So whatever this tremor of icy nausea washing over him is, it can't be _fear._ Other reasons, there have to be other– 

Heart minnowdarts sideways under his sternum: Hears the distant door, quietly. Hears the first flight of stairs, quietly. A floorboard flexing, in the sitting room. Silence and silence, loud ticking of it, and he can practically _feel_ John standing out there. 

His throat is clogged, and his body heavy and paralyzed, and he lies there, sheet twisted in one hand. He can do this, he has to do this, he has to go out there and fix this, has to figure out how to m-

The duvet's on the floor and he's vertical before the creak of the first upstairs step fades off the air. 

Doesn't mean to quite shout it as he barrels 'round the corner. "Don't!"

John turns, eyes him warily, silently.

“Please- uh.. don't. Um. Go up yet.”

“Alright.” John's voice is even, but he doesn’t say anything else.

It'd be a little unnerving if he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He'd even be fidgeting, if he were an ordinary person. With the cord of his dressing gown, as he swallows, speaks. “So... ah. What happens now?”

“Christ, Sherlock– ” John really oughn't press on his eyelids that way. “ _You apologise_. And I accept your apology, and then everything's back to the way it was until the next time you act a colossal tit.”

“But you've already forgiven me- I can tell,” he points out neutrally, factually.

“That's not!– ” Oh. Bit Not Good. (But _see_ : John takes a deep breath, lowers his voice. Proof! John's forgiven him, he was right, so why are they wasting time stan–) “That's not the point, Sherlock.”

It's ridiculous, that he has to do this. Tedious.

“I'm. Sorry.” 

The words are a bit chewy in his mouth, so he tries again.

“I'm sorry, John.”

And he is, sort of. The sort-of sincerity must show; John's brow unfurrows, and some of the light comes back into his face. He's not quite smiling, but definitely no longer angry when he murmurs “'m tired, I’m gonna go up. You sleeping tonight?”

“No.”  -Ah! You're supposed to do a kindness, that sort of rubbish, to make it up to the person. “ –But I'll do something quiet.”

 

And it _is_ quiet work, your miming arpeggios above the strings in the pre-dawn light, thinking about the warmth of John's eyes that sentence earned you.

 

  



	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

It's a disease vector. 

 

He reminds himself: A warm, wet incubator of a myriad of pathogens. He has to keep his wits about him, has to- steady this veering whirl shooting through his brain. So he tries to remind himself that it's just a mobile petri dish, a– 

John's thin-lipped mouth pressing against his feels like an impact, knocks the breath out of his lungs. The shopping drops to the rug; a scatter of oranges, and something liquid, leaking.

He tries to think about lactobacilli and staphylococci, about the evolution of banal primatological mating behavior, about the wholly arbitrary fetishisation of an orifice designed chiefly for alimentary ingress. 

He fails, spectacularly. 

Everything is a running river of warm throb, and he goes limp, falling toward John, who opens his mouth, oh, opens his mouth, for Sherlock to fall in, and John's arms are strong and Sherlock's head is a fuzzy dark space and John's hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his breath, his wet, his Yes, oh god Yes this is Yes this is Kissing _This_ is kissing.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

“You're hoovering.”

 

There's no other word for it; John _gapes_ in the doorway. Gapes for quite a few seconds, in fact, before repeating himself with equal awe.

“ _You're_ hoovering.”

He could be honest, correct John's mistake; he's not cleaning the flat, actually – merely preparing to collect back up the several ounces of bio-luminescent diotomes he's been pouring out at various sites on the rug all afternoon. Too valuable not to save for future reuse. 

He could explain, he could correct, but. The smile on John's face is– well. It's maddeningly wonderful, isn't it? He shouldn't care if John is 'proud of him' or moved by banal gestures of “caring” or suchlike rubbish. He shouldn't. But.

Flourishing the hose stick deftly between the coffee table and the chair, he inclines his head minutely in what is not _technically_ a nod of affirmation, so it's not quite a lie, is it? 

John's hand affectionately squeezing his elbow says _love_ as palpably as the wet little peck he plants on his jaw as he moves by. It makes him shiver. He's hooked, hopelessly. And it's more addictive than cocaine and nicotine twice over. People will sink to extraordinary lows in pursuit of a fix, he knows this, will stoop to degradations unimaginable.

Sigh. It'd better not come to _doing laundry_ for a hit.

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

  


He's heard John say a lot of things that surprise him: “Amazing” instead of “Freak”; “God, yes!” instead of “Piss off!” But this– this stops him dead in his tracks.

“Jesus- Sherlock- I want- oh god... _please fuck me._ ”

He's currently licking John's arsehole, a pursuit which is annoyingly messy with saliva but extremely exciting- or rather, he _was_ , before this gaspy morpheme bomb was dropped into his mind palace. 

Now he's just hovering there, chin glistening, eyes wide, barely hearing the groan his stopping dragged out of John's throat.

They haven't ever, John's usually the one who- And he's never thought about it, really. What it would be like to penetrate John, to be inside him– 

“Sherlock.”

Oh. John staring at him, rather fiercely. Neck craned over his shoulder, eyes glossy black flecks of fire. 

Yes. Yes, he wants to. Will. A ferocious swell of something fills his torso, and he nods mutely, gripping his fingertips sharply into the soft roundness of arse for a moment before moving away. 

The drawer rattle seems loud in the suddenly thrumming silence. Rummaging blind, but his fingertips are as good as his eyes, and there- yes. Enough, though? The tube's nearly empty. Perhaps he should– 

John's hand is a sudden softness against his back. John's breathing a familiar, reliable metronome that brings Sherlock's heart back into a steadier gait.

“Y'kay?”

The trademark query bristles though, and he pulls away from the warm touch, the warm voice. 

“Of course I am. Don't assume I don't know what I'm doing just because– “ The rest swallowed on the pursed lips of annoyance, and he nudges brusquely against sturdy hip. The bravado of tone's a threadbare palimpsest atop the nervousness: “Over.”

John's eyebrows lift incrementally, but he complies, rolling onto his back with a cheeky grin.

The only sound that of skin against sheet as Sherlock slides up onto his knees between John's thick thighs, pushing them up and wide apart as he goes.

Not so cheeky the grin, now. 

The curl stuck to his forehead trains a rivulet of sweat to run into his eye, and he blinks hard for a moment before thinking maybe blind's actually the way to go. It's cold against his fingertips and it's only as he's already pressing that he remembers he should've warmed it a bit in his hands. The first gasp is clearly from the gelatinous chill; the second- isn't. And the third, well that's not even John's. 

He opens his eyes then, as the _Oh_ tumbles out of his mouth at the sensation of his fingers sliding into the warmth- the _heat_ of it. Doesn't know where to put his gaze; it'd be too much, John's eyes, too much, the place where their bodies are connected. John's ribcage, then. The false ribs; 8,9,10. He pushes, watches the sudden movement of curved bone under its sleeve of skin; John's inhale hitched and sharp. He retracts, mesmerized by the skitter of shake across John's torso. He's shaking, too; he simply hasn't noticed that. 

And becoming less observant by the minute. A fuzzing heat is washing through his mind, and the only clear thing this: Push, retract, _John_. So blurring, in fact, that he startles slightly when John gasps, swallows, speaks.

“That's- Yeah. 'm ready.”

He looks up, looks at, finally. He's supposed to– now. John's leg is so wonderfully heavy when he lifts it. It grounds him when his glans touches the slick, quivering knot of flesh. It's- he's-

“Sherlock, nghgod- Go ahead, _go on_.”

He pushes. 

It's not fair, to've expected him to be prepared for this. How could he ever have been prepared for what this feels like, for what it does to him? _He's inside John_. -And he absolutely, positively, cannot move. He can feel his mouth round and rigid on a small, shocked O; he cannot feel any air moving into or out of his lungs. 

John's stroking at his hand brings him his voice back, at least.

“I'm– I can't.”

It's a strange interregnum for a moment, and Sherlock grinds his teeth in frustration, in fury, in desire, in other things, things he can't articulate. But then they're moving, a smooth rolling over that doesn't even shift him fully out of John's body.

“This, then?” John says quietly, looking down into his eyes. It's not really a question, and he kisses along Sherlock's jaw before sliding away, up, settling his haunches against Sherlock's thighs.

John moves, up and forward. And then back down. Slowly. 

There is water, so much water, in the mind palace. 

He tries to focus on the sensation of the insides of John's knees, slick and prickly, pressing tightly against the outside of his hips. He tries not to drown. But again John moves, and this time he does not pause. 

He moans approvingly when Sherlock's body – of its own accord, apparently – pushes up to meet him. It's off-key for several strokes, a slight misalignment in time, his pelvis rising now a second too late, now a second too early, but then- He's thrusting up as John's pushing down. A synchrony that feels like an undertow, a deadly rip current. 

And then he says it. 

John makes a shocked breathy sound in response, and it'd have been a lovely moment, except Sherlock doesn't stop at the one. His voice cracks on the repetition, and the third incarnation has a strange bedrock of something in it that torques his voice off-angle. 

John's body stiffens suddenly with worry, and he stops ( _please no christ don't stop!_ ), curling his hand against Sherlock's face: “Hey. _Hey_. What's-” 

With more desperate energy than he's ever marshaled, even fighting for his life, he seizes at John's hips, clutches, pulls down, pushes himself up; demands bodily that he not to stop. And John- Oh John. Like always. Like in dangerous alleyways or ominous forests: Even if wary, even if he doesn't understand the circumstances or have all the facts, if Sherlock says do _this_ , he does it. Without hesitation, without asking why, without reservation. It's a trust so absolute it practically redefines the term.

And so John does not stop, despite his concern. He's not moving as fast as he was, but he _is_ moving, and Sherlock is rocking up into him, and he manages to get his mouth firmly against John's neck to prevent the sentence slipping out again. His arms slide against the slick of sweat across John's back, and he clings like a sea-tossed sailor as the wave of it falls down on him again and again and again and– 

 

 

§

 

 

Any seafarer will tell you: There is no beauty quite like that after a storm. The moist stillness of the room suffuses around them like a pink dawn. Someone's sleepy arm manages to reach the coverlet, drag it back up from the floor. Silent mutual deliberations reach consensus on the matter of sticky mess vs. exhaustion; a rare victory for the latter this time.

Because he is sometimes brilliant despite being ordinary, John doesn't mention your blurt; not right then, afterwards, and not ever, later. Because John simply accepts it the way he does everything about you, it doesn't sit lurking uncomfortably anywhere, and you hardly ever think about it again. 

When you do once – in the middle of a tricky phosphate conversion, of all things – you cast about for explanation. Transient disruption in Broca's area seems plausible; brought on by the neurochemical imbalance created by the brain's endogenous response to sexual excitation. Yes, that's it. A sound deduction. 

It's the only explanation, really. After all, sociopaths don't say _I love you_. 

 

Not even high-functioning ones.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

  


He knows a lot of things, our Sherlock. But he didn't know what was going through John's mind this morning. What thoughts were beneath those surreptitious glances, that irrepressible grin.

_It's madness. Sheer, bolloxing insanity._

It's mental and it's ridiculous and it's almost certain calamity. And it feels more completely _right_ than anything he's ever done.

The ring is modest, and not even the usual sort; an alloyed titanium instead of gold - less susceptible to chemicals. He fingers its circumference idly where it's warm in his pocket. He's going to look like an _idiot_ standing there, holding it toward Sherlock. 

Still absolutely no idea what he's going to say. Perhaps he should just grab him, shove it on his finger: "Look, you great barking wanker: You're mine now. And I'm yours. So there's that taken care of. Leftover curry or Chinese tonight?"

 

§

 

He knows a lot of things, Sherlock does. But he doesn't know that this is how John's day began. Has no idea that he was approximately twelve seconds away from being asked for his hand in “-um, er, shit!... uh, marriage” over toast crumbs before things with Moriarty escalated. 

He does not know that even in this room, this chilly, sterile room in which John is angrily demanding _Doesn’t she mean anything to you?_ , there is, at this very moment, a tiny velvet bag in John's pocket that contains a promise, an oath cast in metal.

What he does know is that John is looking at him with- 

contempt. 

This expression on John's face does not make him feel warm and good. ( _Oh John, I have to- I'm not_ really-)

What he does know is that John says

 

“You- _machine_.”

 

And that the word is a blow that crushes his ribs and there is no air no air

 

 

The door swings viciously. He can't- right now. He has to-

 

 

 

 _John_.


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

He's positively _giddy_. 

It's as good as cocaine, if you want to know the truth, and he strides to and fro in the tiny morgue annex room burning and twitching with neurochemical fire. Doesn't even blink when his sweeping stride sends a clipboard clattering to the floor.

“ _Exactly_ to plan, Molly. Exactly! Oh. Just perfect.”

His face is eerily pale in the polished aluminum of the rudimentary mirror above the tiny sink. The acrylic blood is curiously stubborn; he scrubs harder. “Out, damn spot!” The laugh that follows sounds strange, a high, thready thing.

“Sherlock.”

“Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this–” Hmm. Odd, it really _isn’t_ coming off.

She has to tug at his sleeve to actually get through. “ _Sherlock_. They've taken John to seven.”

Seven? Seven what– Oh. He meets Molly's eyes and tries to look suitably distressed.

Right, John. Well. John will be fine. He's made of sturdy stuff. They'll have to pump him full of Chlorpromazine today, but he'll right himself quickly enough. And it won't be long that Sherlock'll have to be away– a few months, a year at the outside, and then he can come back and everything will be exactly as it was.

 

 

He doesn't understand why Molly doesn't look happier as she hands him the scrubs and shoes.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

It is not a few months.

 

And he is no longer giddy.

 

He sucks hard against the papery skin of the filter, concentrating on the sensation of the smoke winding, coiling hotly into each tiny bronchial crevice. The tree that hides him from view drops a leaf silently, and he stares at it a moment before peering again in the direction of his own tombstone.

It's starting to look like John isn't going to come to the grave this year. Nearly midnight. His coat heavy with absorbed mist: Seven hours is a long time to stand in a foggy cemetery. 

Thirty six months is a long time to be dead.

A glance down at his watch tells him there are eight minutes until it's no longer today, no longer this– anniversary. If he leaves now, he won't have to be certain that John did not come. 

All his life, _knowing_ has been paramount, the truth valorised above all else. If you had told him three years ago that there is any situation in which it is better to _not know,_ and that, indeed, there would come a time when even _he_ would choose to avoid discovering the truth, he'd have scoffed with the scathing derision such an absurdity deserves. 

He'd have scoffed. Then.

The ground is just wet enough to tug gently at his footfalls, not wet enough to leave mud on his shoes; assuming a loam ratio of 20% clay, that means rain approximately sixteen hours ago, no more than .04 millimeters, no less than .02. He picks up his pace a bit. Only one minute left, and he doesn't want the temptation of glancing back over his shoulder.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

  


“No.” 

“J–”

“No.”

The first one sounds somewhat normal. The second is softer, more difficult to define. He shifts awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what to do. He wants (needs, _needs_ ) to move toward John, but the air, the space, the short distance between them feels like it's made of lead.

Perhaps it was supposed to be a dramatic punch and then a copper-tinged kiss and then Bob's your uncle they're _them_ again.

Perhaps it was supposed to be a dead faint followed by a long night of crying that yielded to an infectious giggle that turned into the two of them asleep in each other's arms right there on the floor.

It is neither of these.

John is just staring at him. A dreadful stillness to his face. Just. Staring. Finally, he turns slowly away with a shrug. His voice is flat and tinny and so low Sherlock barely hears him.

“There's leftover takeaway in the fridge.”

 

He disappears up the stairs.

 

 

 

§

 

 

No surprises await him on the other side of the dusty door; he knows now that he'll find their- his- bedroom emptied of John's things. It still hits him like a blow. He sits in the soft, damning silence and thinks. Replays John's reaction over and over in his mind.

Some sort of PTSD rubbish- or maybe just simple shock. Either way, tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow they'll have it out, and they can start again.

 

 

§

 

 

They do not have it out.

Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. John never, not even on that very first day when he'd moved in, seemed like a boarder, like– just a flatmate. He does now. It's horrifying. John isn't John anymore. He's inhabiting the flat, he's here, but not _here_.

He butters his toast quietly across the table, steps politely aside to let Sherlock pass him in the hall. He says things, eventually. They make “conversation.” And they do finally talk about– Sherlock explains. At length. 

John nods occasionally, silently, during the exposition. When there's nothing more Sherlock can say, he stops, curling his fingernails into his palms in a futile effort to reign in his pulse, holds his breath waiting the response.

John stares off into the space over Sherlock's shoulder. Stands then, fiddles idly with some miscellanea on the tea table. Mumbles as he shuffles slowly away, “I'm doing a wash. Let me know if you have anything needing to go in.”

The biting down doesn't draw as much blood from his tongue as he'd expected. The small sounds of John gathering supplies from the cupboard burn his nerves to ash.

Sherlock went away. But he came back ( _I came back, John! Look, I'm right here.-_ It's what he shouts every day in his head). He came home. But somehow John's gone away.

He doesn't know how to make John come home. Apparently the science of deduction has its limits. And the stupid books are useless. They say there are five stages of grief. They do not say how long it takes to grieve and ungrieve someone who died and then returned. They do not tell him how to get his John back. He wants to scream, to grab him and shake him, but he's terrified that will drive John away, really away, straight through the black door and into a life that doesn't include him.

It is a long time before they share a laugh together. When they finally do, his torso is liquid with relief.

It is an even longer time before he tastes John's mouth again. When he finally does, he's sure that he's going to die of happiness, and equally certain that he would not mind that a bit. He can breathe, finally ( _finally!_ ), and it's the most bliss he's ever known. 

Until he pulls back and sees John's face.

It's smiling, and pink-tinged with desire, but there's a wanness to it that was never there before, and there's something... missing somehow. John's smile always made him feel like- home. But this doppelganger... If he were anyone else, he wouldn’t even notice the small disparity, could ignore the subtle dissonance between the smile he remembers and this one. It's not quite the same as it was– 

 

before.

 

But at least he has John. They're here, together, technically, under the same roof. That's something. That's better than nothing.

 

 

Isn't it?

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

Too lazy to fetch the footstool - it's _yards_ away - so he's groping blindly. 

He's _just_ tall enough lifted up on his long crab eyestalk toes to rummage up here, tips of fingers. Anhydrous magnesium sulfate – he's sure there's some still left about, even after all this time – and John had insisted he move it to the top shelf of the cupboard so no one mistook it for sugar again.

With an heroic stretch, he reaches the much-disused back. Flickering somatosensory neurons transmit their data: 

Rusty old canister  
Something that was once gooey but is now dehydrated (jam? eyeball?)  
Cobweb, no spider  
Splinter (bleeding. just transport.)  
Christmas glasses (sadness. ignore.)  
Something- soft. Velvety. Some sort of pouch? What is that? What–  


 

 

§

 

 

“This is the _out_ door, you twat!”

He slices through the throng like Moses parting the Red Sea, oblivious to the muttered _Oi!_ s, blind to anything, everything, that is not John Watson, male caucasian, 74 kg, last seen wearing beige jumper (hideous), denims (considerably less so), tan loafers (that he will forever deny make him want to– 

Oh! There he is. Getting on with the chip and pin machine, this time. Calmly swiping produce over the scanner. His face kind even in repose. Sherlock breaks into a thoroughly indoor-inappropriate run.

Nearly there when John looks up, starts slightly, eyebrows aloft in simple surprise that catalyses rapidly into paling shock. “Where did you- How-”

Sherlock holds his arm out stiffly, the ring awkward in his thickly gloved fingertips. Brandishes it like it's a piece of evidence, _the_ piece of evidence in the best, most exciting case he's ever seen.

The less charitable bystanders will call it a bellow.

“Marry me!”

The avocado falls to the floor with a wet thump. John's fingers flex and unflex in the now-empty space where it was, just a moment ago. Just a moment. 

He gapes. Because the avocado and Sherlock and this and everything is drawing and building and swirling and his ears pop like they do at altitude and he's not – he's _not_ – going to faint in the middle of Tesco while being- Cor _fucking_ blimey- proposed to _Shit Shit Shit_ he's being _proposed to. By Sherlock._ There is no saliva in his mouth. None. Words are wooly things.

“I– Christ– _Yes_.” 

“It wasn't a question.”

John laughs. Sherlock bends, swift swooping heron. Kisses him fiercely. 

Around them, a smattering of applause, a “Well done, mate!” from the vicinity of the asparagus, an errant eye roll or muttered epithet. Then life resumes, metallic symphony of cart wheels, aria of beeps. The murmurs drift away like ripples traveling to the edges of a pond and they're left standing there: A tall man and a slightly less tall man clutching in a grocery checkout queue.

Eyes still wide and shining, John looks down at the half-packed bags and then up at Sherlock. Who bends his head down and asks – and it is an asking, this one (actually, it's a pleading, if you're a right stickler for accuracy) – too softly for witnesses to call it anything, too quietly for anyone but John to hear.

“ _Please come back. Come_ home _, John._ ” 

The small raft of air against his ear sends a warm wash of shiver from neck to shoulder to torso. Something loosens. Something aligns. His hand is suddenly pressing very hard into the small of Sherlock's back.

 

Too quietly for anyone but Sherlock to hear, he says _Yes_. _Yes_ , he says; too sweetly, almost, to bear.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

“ _Bees_ , John!”

“Sorry, what?”

Already a tosh winded, he doesn't pause for a proper breath before continuing, depositing the shopping right on the floor where he stands. Triage; this is an emergency, after all.

“Do pay attention. That– _woman_ , the one who murdered Speedy's (and, make no mistake, turning the venerable deli into a bloody _gastropub_ is a proper crime.)– she suggested that we move to Sussex, buy a cottage, and _raise_ _bees_.” 

“'Keep' bees. One doesn't really 'raise' bees.” Murmured absently, eyes still on the newspaper; and the man's entirely failed to leap up in panic. Clearly John does not _grasp_ the extremity of this crisis.

“Be that as it may, it's preposterous! Us, leave London? Leave–”

He pauses mid dramatic swanning. A shadow of anxiety flits over his finely lined face as his eyes fall on the cane – actually needed now – leaning against the armchair. Three decades ago, seventeen stairs weren't even an eyeblink of effort for John, but now– And there was that bit of difficulty on the tube last month, too...

“John- You don't... would you _want_ to move to Sussex and raise bees?”

John glances up, suddenly paying very much attention indeed. The expression on his face no different than if Sherlock'd asked him if he wanted thumbs primavera for dinner.

“No, Sherlock. Of course not. 221B is– our home.” Punctuating this sentiment with a crisp snapping of newsprint, he closes the matter on a declaration gruff with passionate finality. 

“Always has been, always will be.”

 

Around them, the grotty old flat seems to square its timeworn shoulders with pride. Mrs Hudson knew what she was about, bequeathing the property into their good hands. 

Unnoticed by either of 221B's stewards, a breeze nudges the sitting room curtains into motion; London itself, breathing a sigh of relief.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

  


He walks out. 

It's very Not Good to walk out, he knows, he knows. The doctor will think you are a monster; the nurse-receptionist's face will contort into a sharp moue of disgust when she tells her friends at pub after work. It's wrong, worse than wrong, but he can't– 

So he walks out, the door standing gaping open as if in surprise behind him. The air is thick, the humidity perfectly preserving the olfactory evidence of an ordinary day: Diesel fuel, 79% carbon- 9% over the purported regulatory limit, bread: fresh, kebobs: not, the perfume and sweat of countless people going about their day _not_ reeling, not– 

He circles the hospital, glances up at the familiar ledge. Considers it - wants to, for a moment. Won't. Not yet anyway.

He does not want this to be happening.

It is happening.

So, irreconcilable impasse.

 

_All lives end, all hearts are–_

 

Death does not alarm him. Death per se. Death, the governing entropic force of the universe.  
Death his own, death anyone else's.

 

Almost anyone else's.

 

§ 

 

He walks in. It's horrifying, worse than horrifying, but he has to be-

So he walks in. The familiar door slipping closed behind him with a sigh as if in commiseration. 

There are flecks of concrete in the wounds. John will correctly deduce it's a wall that you've been beating your hands against. He will clean them, stitch them, bandage them. He will lay his weathered palm on the back of your neck, softly kiss your head. All of this, silently, tenderly. So tender it _hurts_.

The bed will be warm, and it will smell of the two of you.

You will not cry. You must not. You owe him that much at least. You were so alone, and you owe him so much. You owe him-

 

Everything.

 

§

 

He fetches the bin just in time as you vomit. He holds you, all night, as you weep. 

 


	17. Chapter 17

  


The quiet interrupts his thinking. 

His stomach twists, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He's being ridiculous; it's not _suddenly_ quiet, it's not- _signifyingly_ quiet. It's only that he hadn't noticed, and now that he has, it seems sudden. It seems– 

The sound of the book setting down on his desk drifts away on the mote-flecked air. He pads silently into the lounge, pauses in the doorway. Looks everywhere but at the sofa. He's being ridiculous; John's- he's just napping, that's all. So it's alright to look. It's alright. 

And see- just as you knew, he's only napping. But the pile of blankets hide him from view, hide the rise and fall of breath, and even though you're being ridiculous and everything is fine, you have to check, you have to be– certain.

The quiet creeping's the easy work of two strides, and he hovers, hesitates. Finally lifts the coverlet, slowly, slowly... and there's John's face, close-eyed and still. Just to be sure, he leans in closer, and then just a bit cl– 

“Yaghh!”

He has exactly .03 seconds to appreciate the fact that John is yes, evidently very much alive, as he reels backwards in startlement, connecting with the coffee table with a resounding _thwack_.

It can only be called spectacular, the fall- a slapstick sprawl that Buster Keaton would envy. He lands with a thud and a grunt. Peers up at John from the floor.

Neither age nor illness has put a dent in their timing; as if on cue, they simultaneously burst into breathless laughter.

“Oh god, your face– when I yelled– ” John manages weakly between gulps of air.

His dignity's about as bruised as a thing can be, but he's rather miraculously unharmed, and he hauls himself up to a sit beside the sofa, throwing an arm across John's legs and resting his head on the edge.

A hand lands gently on his curls. “Sorry, sorry- Y'kay?” The smothered chuckling imbues his voice with a rare animation. John's eyes are bright, brighter than they've been in a long time, and Sherlock leans toward that glow as inexorably as a plant stretching toward sunlight. Pale eyes ask permission; inky indigo ones silently answer _Yes_ with a crinkle of delighted surprise in their nest of loose skin.

John's lips are dry, and Sherlock presses his own softly against them, holds there for a moment. Finds places for his hands, settles his weight onto the sofa gently as he can. Licks softly at the chapped skin, shares the moisture of his mouth; it garners him a sound he hasn't heard in nearly a year, a sound he's missed, and he laps at the moan as if it's nourishment. John's mouth falls open under his, and he moves inside, tongue mapping long-familiar terrain that still thrills him, every time.

He finds there the staleness of sleep, and the undertone of sickness, that acrid and unmistakeable perfume of a dying body, but there, underneath it all, his chemist's palate discerns it: Just John.

His slim fingers lack the deftness they once had, and tremble slightly as he pushes the shirt buttons through their tiny slits. John's bare chest appears slowly to his view, and when he pushes the fabric aside, John’s skin shivers visibly despite the warmth of the room. He rubs firmly at the chill-piqued flesh until it warms palpably under his hands. He does not touch the healing incision where the arterial chemotherapy port has been removed, but neither of them pretends it isn't there. Sets his cheek against the sparse scatter of grey hairs in the center of John's chest, rubs for a long moment before turning to mouth reverently at his torso, his neck, his ear.

Their bodies, no longer young, are slow to stir, and John never makes it much past half hard, even as he comes with a soft gasp and a modest spill of ejaculate into Sherlock's hand. But hearts? Those are ageless, _n'est-ce pas_? A witness would see two old men there, washed up human flotsam lying exhausted on the scrapheap of life. But someone more observant would see what's _really_ there: Spry cohorts, resting between adventures. The same roguish compatriots they were decades ago when they were two madman racing through the labyrinth of London, slaying its Minotaurs.

In the cosy silence, Sherlock makes a sound into the side of John's neck. Squeezes a bit too hard where he's wrapped around him.

For the first and only time since his diagnosis, there is the tremor of tears in John's voice, but he swallows, hard. Pats the fine boned hand where it presses over his sternum fiercely.

“You'll be okay, Sherlock. It'll be alright.”

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

The glassy mosaic scum glitters on the surface of the Assam, diaphanous and iridescent as dragonfly wings.

It was the first, this morning; has been sitting untouched the longest. Next to it, two mugs and three proper teacups of Oolong take up the remainder of the space on the nightstand.

A motley brigade of Earl Grey - one in a measuring cup, several in cereal bowls - keeps watch on the windowsill; he ran out of room on furniture by noon. The room is full of tea, every cup and mug and remotely cylindrical vessel they have, and he tiptoes in now with Darjeeling in a Berzelius beaker.

John is not conscious. He has not been conscious since 5:41 a.m. when he rolled toward the feathers of dawn light drifting in through the curtains and mumbled something. He breathes, erratically, in the room full of tea. More shallowly by the– no

Sherlock is very busy, you see? He needs to makes tea. John likes tea. He's running out of space. There is nowhere to put the Darjeeling and he has to find a place so he can set it down in case John wants Darjeeling. John likes tea. If he shifts the Assam a little- no, no room there. John would know how to fix this, how to make it all fit, how to make it all make sense. The setting sun is stealing the light away and there is nowhere to put the Darjeeling. He settles for the hallway, just outside the door. Stares into the corridor.

He should turn around. He looks down, instead. Watches the tiny ribbons of steam curl away from the beaker. He should turn around. He must be very quiet; John needs his sleep. Quietly, across the rug. Quietly, onto the bed. He is very tired. He should lie down.

He will be careful not to accidentally tug the covers loose at the bottom with his too-long legs; John hates it when he does that. “Like being in bed with a bloody giraffe!” John will say, but his eyes will be smiling, and he will take Sherlock's feet between his ankles, pull him even closer where he's spooned against John's back. John always makes a sound then, a soft, round, warm little sound of contentment, and Sherlock–

 

John       likes

 

   tea

 

 

The tea is cold. But not as cold as John's skin.

 

 

He cannot swallow around the lump in his throat, so John's name is stuck there. John's chest is cold and not moving under his hand and his back is cold and not moving against Sherlock's chest and he should let go, get up, find his mobile and dial, but please, just leave him alone, let him stay here, next to John, it's where he belongs, it's the only place he's ever belonged _Look John, I've brought you more tea. Please stay. Stay here with me. I will bring you more blankets. Then you will not be cold anymore. John. You won't be cold_

 

 

§

 

 

He has always trusted the evidence of his senses. But they are not working well at the moment. There is a static non-sound inside his head that is curiously loud. He cannot see or hear when they come, not properly anyway, cannot feel the arms on him, pulling him away. Cannot smell the faint odor that makes them flinch when they come through the door.

He watches in silence with the lodged bullet of name still trapped in his throat as the neighbor's elbow bumps the nightstand. Watches in silence as the laurel-crested mug gives its contents up to gravity in a freefall and splits cleanly in two with a muted thud against the floor.

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

  


He waits.

He is not depressed anymore, he merely is not happy. He is simply waiting. 

All the research says that it's not uncommon for a healthy spouse to suddenly begin failing and die in the year following the death of the other, in couples of long tenure. And so he waits. Pulse: Good. Respiration: Steady. Below in the eyepiece, the smear of his blood tells him Sedimentation rate: Normal. 

Waiting is boring. But he has things to occupy his time. Today he will go to see Lestrade. Greg does not recognize him anymore, most days, but he enjoys being regaled with epic odes of heroic DIs and justice served. And Sherlock brings him things – an interesting crime novel; a Sudoku Cube suggested by the Alzheimer's aide that was greeted with a bland blink; a conspiratorially handed off pint of bitter forbidden by same that was welcomed gleefully.

As he knots his scarf and turns to set out, his eye plays a trick: John, standing in the doorway smiling at him. “ _You’re_ hoovering.”

 

If he leaves straight away, the sadness will not take hold.

 

 

§

 

 

The tube is awful as ever; people are so excruciatingly _careful_ of the elderly. “Mind the gap, sir. Do you need a hand across?” He wants to shout at them sometimes, yell that he isn't made of glass, damn it. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, ta – wrestler of Golems, jumper into abysses. They'd not treat him like some sort of fragile ancient if he had his harpoon with him.

Well. At least the walk through the grounds isn't _too_ dreadful, although it grates on him that Greg's in a place like this (“Verdant Hills”- _Feh!_ Who names these places?!), surrounded by flowers and chintz and carefully manicured lawns. Greg doesn't seem to mind, though, and– 

Speak of the devil. Even at this distance back, he can hear Lestrade's still surprisingly robust voice filling the sunroom. The flurry of titters amongst the young female nurses that follows clear indication that the man's lost none of his charm, however cruelly the disease has made him lose most of his memory.

He glances up just as Sherlock comes into the circle of wing chairs; a smile, but it's a general smile, untextured by recognition. So, today is one of those days – Greg's not quite sure exactly who Sherlock is, only that he's a friendly presence. 

It's a nice visit though, and Greg's peppery with excitement over the cigar Sherlock's smuggled in for him. They do talk crime, some – a particular case that the sight of a one-armed orderly brought to mind – but the latter end meanders, and Sherlock finds himself, to his surprise, talking about John. 

With a suddenness for which he has no counter-strategy, emotion floods thickly into his chest, his voice, and he's about to make his excuses and dash out when Greg's hand leaps forward and powerfully grips his forearm. 

Before he can protest, the DI's tugged him into a half-sitting, masculinely-awkward hug. The rare lucidity in Greg's voice is a shock, but the words are what stun him.

“You always were a great man. But now you're also a good man, Sherlock.”


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

Snow in London this year, and not a little of it. The black-streaked slush still pushes sluggishly at the kerbs, and it's enough mess to be an excuse to go home, get away from the noise and bustle and _people_.

He glances away out of habit as he nears the black door. He misses Speedy's, and the different awning still upsets him sometimes. Clutching his bag from the bookstore more tightly, he grasps the familiar handle in relief.

The door opens too easily, and he nearly trips by the unnecessary inertia. Just righting himself when Molly comes into view 'round the door edge; fast letting go of the knob she'd been pulling as he pushed, reaching solicitously for his elbow. “Sorry 'bout that, one of those funny–” She gestures a crossing with her hands, and they both nod in amused recognition.

He smiles, bends to kiss her cheek. “You're looking lovely.”

She blushes, just a dusting, waves it off in the way of women who know they are old and no longer beautiful, but still appreciate a compliment. Her happiness is genuine, and he's glad to have told the lie. Someone taught him about kindness and truth.

He'd be glad of some company, but she's bustling out already – something about the grandchildren, a surprise trip up north orchestrated by her husband. He's happy for her; she is well-loved. It is a good thing, to be loved.

He thinks this silently on the stairs; notes it aloud to the skull. Slides the casserole Molly's brought this week into the oven, and it's no time at all before the flat's filled with a homey, warm herb smell, but it still feels- empty.

 

He waits. 

 

He can be patient. Someone taught him about patience.

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

 

 

He'd hoped for something, above all, swift; a massive myocardial infarction, perhaps- anything, really, so long as it doesn’t involve lingering, waning, wasting perfectly good adenosine-5-triphosphate reactions. Something expedient, something _efficient_. And it appears he's gotten his wish.

He is not afraid. Death is not something to fear, it is simply a change in the state of one's matter. Solid, liquid, gas.

Mycroft will ensure that, although a civilian, he will be interred next to John in Brookwood, and his flesh will rot next to John, and then his bones will lie for centuries next to John's bones. And that is sufficient for his happiness.

He is not fool enough to think that John is waiting for him somewhere, no. All the empirical evidence suggests that when neurons blaze to black in their last comet streaks of electricity, _you_ disappear. Even so, he– he's quite sure he feels John's fingers on his wrist as the blanket of final darkness falls over the light. He thinks he hears words, too, but he must have it wrong, must have heard incorrectly. It doesn't make sense. Why would John be calling him 

 

“friend”?

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

  


No one saw the ball, love; it slipped out of your sleeve and rolled quietly off the pavement into whatever oblivion awaits things that do so. It's alright. Turns out, you didn't need it. 

_There's always something._

One thing missed, some small detail. Can't expect to get everything right, and even if you could– well. There's always the infuriatingly unpredictable element of chance, isn't there? You knew your Latin: “contingency,” from _contingere_ , “to touch.” A tiny brush of fate's finger, fickle, random; it can change everything, can't it? No one can plan for every contingency- no, not even you.

No one could have predicted she would come veering down out of a downdraft toward the windshield, startle the lorry driver just long enough – one second? two, at the outside? – to make all the difference in the world. Did you see her flight during yours? A sleek young starling, lovely thing: Freshly gleamed from a fountain bath, sun splintering off feathersheen in prism.

She didn't mean to delay your soft landing.

 

 

§

 

 

They say that when you die your whole life flashes before your eyes.

Which is extraordinary, isn't it?; _an entire lifetime_ scrolling by in a matter of seconds. It's one of the brain's most interesting magic tricks. A miracle, really. One last miracle, as it were.

They say that your whole life flashes before your eyes, but what if instead ( _Your eyes, fixed on him_ ), you see what you would've wanted your life to be, what it could have been if you'd been brave enough to leap on a rainy night in a taxi? 

Would you know the difference, then, between dream and reality; would you know whether his fingers gripping your wrist are real? 

If a 79.3kg man falls at a rate of 18.1 mps from a 19 meter height, his visual cortex can process only approximately 22 frames before– But perhaps that's enough. The mind can create wholeness out of fragmentation. Hearts can assemble narrative out of disparate pieces. 

 

 

§

 

He _is_ touching you, you know; that grip you feel, it's real. He loves you, Sherlock. And you love him. 

 

 

 

Lov _ed_

 

 

him.


End file.
